


You Could not Give Me More than You Gave Me

by Cchambers



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Is this a breakup? Kinda, M/M, Wow, coliver - Freeform, i am sad, me actually liking one of my own things?, post 4.09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 03:01:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cchambers/pseuds/Cchambers
Summary: There were things people deserved.There was a way- a way fates were handed out, a way stories were assigned to certain souls, a way the world stuck its hands deep into things, even if it didn't need to be meddled with, didn't need to be fixed. There was a way of things working out, and there was a way of things going awry.It wasn't what Oliver deserved.A rewrite of my latest (garbage fic) from Connor's perspective





	You Could not Give Me More than You Gave Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thank you for clicking on this fic! I wrote this because I wasn't proud of my latest work/the way it turned out. Tbh, I'm a little rusty on writing for htgawm after not doing it for so long. I hope this is good, thank you so much for reading!

There were things people deserved.

There was a way- a way fates were handed out, a way stories were assigned to certain souls, a way the world stuck its hands deep into things, even if it didn't need to be meddled with, didn't need to be fixed. There was a way of things working out, and there was a way of things going awry.

It wasn't what Oliver deserved.

Connor watched him, watched him from his side of the backseat of a man's car. He was miles away, pressing his head on the smudged glass of the window and closing his eyes- trying to remember, trying to forget. His body was still, as if a shell was covering it, needing to be protected.

Connor wanted to touch him, bring him close and hear his voice, even if he had bad things to say, even if he screamed and cried at told Connor the truth: the horrible, ugly truth. He needed to feel Oliver's hands, his soft touch even if he pulled and turned away.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air- they both felt it. It was unavoidable, inevitable. It waited outside the door, waited for one of them to open it and say hello. Connor saw it out of the corner of his eye, felt it breathing down his neck since leaving the hospital, standing on the sidewalk and looking for an Uber driver's car.

Another day was arriving, but he was stuck in the past. Another That Night had been added to the list, right under the night he walked into Annalise's house to see Wes' body on the floor- which was just under the night Annalise herself asked Connor to shoot her, waving a gun in his face as if it were a holy grail, as if it were his salvation, his cure.

He knew Oliver was stuck in the past, too. That Oliver wouldn't let this go as easily as him. No, he didn't let it go. He buried it. He buried it deeply inside himself, let it rot in a grave with all the other thoughts, all the other terrible nights. Oliver, he thought, would wear it. He would wear it like a second skin, let it latch onto him like a snake constricting it's prey. Oliver never buried things.

Connor was an expert.

He was a gravedigger, the man holding the shovel and throwing dirt onto the casket. He dugs the holes and set the engraved tombstones. And he didn't look back when it was over.

There were things people deserved.

You, he thought, you deserve this. You've been here since the beginning, you're a prime player in the game, a piece on the chess board. And you let yourself stay here, when all you should do is pack your bags and _leave_.

Connor was a terrible person.

He was a liar and a conman, pushing people away because he didn't want them to see him for he was. Pushing people away because he needed to get to the finish line.

He was an actor, playing a part, reading from a script. In one play, he was this, and then completely different in the next, on another stage.

He was a murderer and an accessory, blood on his hands and his tracks covered up. He broke Sam Keating's bones with a crowbar and dragged Sinclair's body up the stairs. He broke Wes Gibbin's ribs and ran as his body burned.

He was a cheater, a liability. He was the mistake, the risky turned you made on a sharp road and the boy with dark eyes across the bar.

Connor was a terrible person.

"We all deserve hell," Oliver had said.

And Connor couldn't disagree with him. The words smacked him in the face, punched him in the stomach, but he couldn't fight them because they were true. Good god, were they so fucking true.

 _But_ , Connor was looking at Oliver, _not you._

 _Oh god, Ollie, not you_.

Oliver Hampton was a good person.

He was a saint, a beacon of light in a world of darkness. He brought Connor in from the storm and draped a warm blanket over his shoulders.

He was an example- if you looked up kind in the dictionary, it showed a picture of his face, his beaming grin, his gentle eyes. He was there for you, through thick and thin.

He was a treasure, a jewel. He shone and sparkled. His laugh was a beautiful song, a heavenly melody.

He was what Connor wished he could be.

Oliver Hampton was a good person.

"Connor," Oliver whispered.

He was standing outside Connor's door, holding it open. Cold, winter air rushed into the backseat. They were outside their apartment building, rays of sun landing directly on Oliver's tired, drained face.

The driver looked at Connor through the mirror, glaring. Get out of my car, it said.

"Connor, come on," Oliver instructed, and it came out in an urgent whisper as he shot a sympathetic, awkward glance at the driver.

"Sorry," Connor muttered, shoving himself out of his seat and into the fresh, Philadelphia morning. The car sped away as soon as the door was shut.

"Oliver," he started, but Oliver was already turned a way, briskly walking in the direction of the stairs.  
-  
The deadly silence had followed them home.

Oliver hid in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, gripping the counter as if he were about to keel over and drop at Connor's feet. He threw his coat in a random direction, and it had landed on the sofa.

Connor wanted to curl up against the door, put his knees to his chest, and sob. Tears needed to run down his face, he needed to forget how to breathe. He needed to forget the world and cry himself to sleep.

But he stood, watching, waiting. For a response. For anything.

For Oliver.

It had been five minutes. Five, unbearable minutes as the tension was slowly swelling into a crescendo, an uncomfortable burst, completely uncontrollable. Every time Connor opened his mouth, he zipped it shut. He had said enough. He didn't need to say anything.

He just needed Oliver to speak.

He needed Oliver to be okay.

Okay with everything.

Connor could make the waiting easier: open up a bottle of wine, of whisky, of any strong liquor they had in their fridge or their cabinet, and drink himself silly.

He could throw himself on the couch and wake up with an empty bottle staring at him and the afternoon sun hurting his eyes.

He could turn on the shower and stand there, stand there and think until the water turned cold and he didn't realize that his skin was red, burning.

He could leave, walk out the door and drive somewhere, drive until his car ran out of gas and he was lost, far away from the things he left behind in the city.

No, he thought.

You can't leave Oliver.

But what if he leaves me?

Five minutes had turned to ten.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

Connor's head perked and he pulled himself out of the daze, suddenly alert as if cold water had just been splashed in his face.

Oliver hadn't looked up as he said it, still staring down at the stink, as if he was imagining the blood on his hands swirling into the drain. He was tense, and a part of Connor thought he was going to burst.

"Wha- what?"

Connor's voice was unrecognizable, small. He kicked himself for it. Oliver had caught him off guard. All the armor was stripped and his sword was thrown away.

"Connor, who the hell do you think you are?"

"I-"

Connor couldn't answer.

I think I'm a terrible person.

"Simon nearly died, Connor. He was bleeding out on the floor, there was a bullet in his brain, and you-" Oliver stopped. His face was barely visible in the dark, the curtains drawn and closed, but Connor knew he was crying, that he was sobbing.

"Do you think Simon should die?"

Connor Walsh was a terrible person.

The gravedigger in him said "yes." Said that they needed to cover their tracks and that Simon was just another obstacle, another fence to jump over. The murderer in him agreed.

"I don't know," he mumbled.

Oliver let out a sullen scoff. "Of course you would think that," he chided, shaking his head, "no one you've ever killed has ever lived."

"We didn't kill Simon," Connor objected.

"No," Oliver replied, "but Laurel's the one whose gun he accidentally shot himself with. Not that it matters- you had nothing to do with it, right?"

He'd never seen Oliver so angry, so harsh. A switched had flipped in him, revealing a side Connor didn't know he had.

"You were part of her plan too, Oliver."

He regretted saying it the second it left his mouth.

Oliver finally looked at him.

Tears ran down his cheeks, dark circles hung his red, puffy eyes. "Yes," he admitted, "but I- I wanted to help. I was there to help."

"We all help in our different ways," Connor said.

"Is covering up crimes and- and ruining people's lives your- you and your little group's- way of helping people?" Oliver cried.

Connor was tired of lying.

He was tired of lying to Oliver.

"Yes."

Oliver's mouth hung open, and he was silent, silently shaking, silently sobbing. He was breaking down, and Connor forced himself to watch. "That's not the way thins are supposed to be. That's not what you're supposed to say."

"I know."

"And you- you're okay with it?"

"I don't know."

"Oh," Oliver almost laughed, "so you know, but you also don't know, and you're also okay with killing Simon."

"I didn't say that," Connor argued.

"You were thinking it."

Oliver seemed to always be right.

There was no easy way to handle this. No kiss and make up.

"You asked what I thought of myself, Oliver. Who I thought I was. And I think I'm a terrible person. I think we all are."

"Connor," Oliver began.

He cut him off as he cautiously stepped forward, worried how Oliver would react. "When you said we deserved to go to hell, you were right. 100 percent. But- but you-"

"You don't, Ollie."

Oliver Hampton was a good person.

A good person that Connor Walsh, a terrible person, loved.

"I don't know what to think right now, Connor," Oliver said, "I- I don't know what to do. And I- I don't know if I can do this, any of it."

"I know," Connor said.

It wasn't what Oliver deserved.

He slowly walked away from the sink, turning on his heels. He faced Connor, looked deep into his eyes. What was he thinking?

He's thinking you're terrible person.

Oliver didn't say anything, he just shook his head once more.

"I need space," he said.

"Ollie, I'm sorry-"

The door to the bedroom shut, and Connor Walsh was alone.

There were things people deserved.

And he knew he deserved this.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to rewrite this idea I had in my head from Connor's perspective, which I'm much more comfortable with. It was quite spontaneous. Thank you for reading! (Comments are appreciated cause I am a person who needs praise to live!)  
> -Amanda


End file.
